Table of Contents
Welcome to the Dawn 8
Journey de la Intuitive 11
Lost: Looking for the Dawn 13
The Black Room of Poets 15
Soft as Evening Rain 17
[i] Want to Know Why: It Ain’t Existential Is It? 18
My Blooze for You 19
Black Angel 22
Get All the Love Your Heart Can Hold 23
---Just a Thought of Mankind…? 26
[i] Long to Touch Infinity 30
Indigo Jazz 31
Mental Anguish 32
Traces of Old Lovers 35
Your Money’s Life 37
She Became My Soul 39
…written for strong sistas such as you 40
Fever for Yo’ Love Tonight 42
A Matter of the Dissolution of the Ghetto 44
The Evil of Integration 46
A Bullet for the Drug Dealer 50
Black In… 51
…speaking from Masculine to Feminine 53
Mother of Illegitimates 57
The Ramblings of a Scarred Mind 58
Of Reality and Perception 60
Is There a Difference Between Purple and Grape? 62
Another Trip on the Eve of Insanity 65
Silent Conscience 67
Children of Trouble 69
Pop Poetry 70
Welcome to the Dawn
…and again bloody Light was pulled screaming from the belly of Darkness. There was an august rumbling through the pregnant Universe as it expanded and returned again in on itself like a great chest inhaling and exhaling in a fertilizing manner. Chalky Constellations against the night’s blackboard realigned themselves in the eruption of seven. Pandemonium, race riots in reverse, explodes violently into clam-the parturition process. Green showers washed away soiled brown rings of history...as the nymph child in high heels spoke.
And God looked down upon his flock, ejaculated down his aesthetic omnipotence, giving birth to the poet. One whose ears cradle His words like a baby’s mama when the iron ears of society are deaf from the constant clang of aluminum hearts banging against steel actions. One who’s able to read “dehumanization” when it’s mis-spelled and mis-pronounced “civil-lie-zation.” One who, like penguins returning home to give birth, looks to Nature and finds our umbilical chord that leads back to the Garden. The poet is a blood bridge between man and his Womb. Eshu is the echo of His vibrating voice that rattles us into movement like a bass, centering us on the one. Can you find middle C?
Welcome to the Dawn.
You may leave your tattered physical
that hangs off you like soaked wash rags at the
exit doors of your faded reality.
Keep your body (a dented, scratched, and stalling jalopy)
bloated and pilling from the acid of selfishness;
[i] want your underdeveloped mind
to squish and drip through my words like liquid clay.
[i] shall provide a feast of well seasoned words
on which your famished soul shall dine.
Poetry is the jazzy wake of your first life,
the erupting orange Dawn of your second.
Let go your vicious and venomous viper fears, which
encase you in a concrete cage of social anxieties,
keeping you from soul-shaking hands
with your authentic psyche.
Let go your heavy luggage of guilt
that sags you into nothingness.
Charity is the only Law.
It hath benevolence and a rod
that cannot be vetoed or bent by any government.
And let go your flaming embarrassment.
Love hath no silly shame
and individuals no landloving judge.
For our genuine birthright is to Baldwin each other.
Imprisonment is not an act of rehabilitation,
for Plato’s world of “tangible things” is but a jail cell.
The soul, like summer sunlight,
is to bold for any man to hold.
Yes,…welcome to the Dawn where individuals
become rushing rivers flowing freely into the Sun.
The Evil of Integration
All hail the Shimmering Sunrise of Supremacy.
Judge Lynch’s Reform has come.
Congress’ 104th has reversed the rivers of civil rights
on the scarlet whelped backs of its three-fifth citizens.
It’s a roll call of plantation profiteers who
proudly pose before the Colonies
and chisel in blood the foundation of their pasty empire,
their contract on run-away urbanites
who believed themselves emancipated but failed to read
the fine print of the Freedom Finance Proclamation.
The Gingrich of Deceit is taking names.
The knives in his gore stained mouth water
and flash out for the blood of roasted dark meat.
The Dole of Classism dawns his ivory hood of hatred,
allowing only his bleeding eyes to expose the terror of
his soul as his words pretzelize the meshed mind’s
of the masses upon demselves
making them a bucket full of crawfish.
Won’t be long before the red rebel call of Duke is played.
It’s all one Klan of a family.
And [i], [i] who believed the Disney ending of the 60s
am now forced to choke on the dry porridge of integration.
It’s the evil of pale superintendents,
reigning down their plastic education and molesting
the hollow minds of red-bellied Ebony babies
with eyes that lead to condemned rooms
from being fed a constant diet of self-hatred
from an expired and contaminated can of Europe.
A drowning generation, reaching out at swords,
striking flesh wounds, bleeding, as a turtle, to death.
It’s the Ghost of Segregation Past, lurking
in the distilled images of Ward, June, Ozzie, and Harriet,
touching his cold hands upon their trembling bodies,
keeping the NRA in business.
Yet, the smell of spilled blood,
decayed brains, and spoiled hopelessness doesn’t perfume
the mayonnaise and cucumber air of their neighborhoods.
But this is the Age of Integration?
Where is my superintendent savior?
Where is my powerful principal?
They’re all backseat assistants, castrated and
made impotent by the stainless steel knife of state funding.
Now “Step and Fetch It” are replaced by Watts and Franks,
the neo-house boys in office suits
doing the dirty dancing for the masters,
rounding up their people as recycled chattel for the 104th.
The good King Federick Govertgood has given way
to the Prince, Sir Satan Statehood,
as he picks his fangs clean, wiping the guts
of inner city delicacies from his cracked lips
as Jim Crow, the patient vampire, waits for his own return,
noose in hand, ashen to the bone.
It’s not the silk white of Love or serenity.
It’s the pale, chalky white of Death.
And Black becomes the color of suckers
who gave it all up to ride the front of the bus.
Mine eyes, burning with regret, have seen the coming of
the perverted progeny of integration.
His name be Clarence, and he defecates on the legacy
of the Trinity Amendments,
wiping his ass on the robe of Thurgood
while sitting atop the inferno toilet of inner cities,
hand feeding groundlings to Buchanan the Butcher
as they all say their prayers to Saint Ray-Gun,
giving his message to Columbus’ new army
as it emanates through the Burnin’ Bush.
It’s the Klandestine Century of Tribulation.
But, this is integration?
Integration is an androgynous whore with two tongues.
She kissed us on our foreheads and sent us to sleep
with visions of a rainbow hued promise land
all the while seducing us out of our rights
with Cadillacs and the opportunity to marry ourselves white
or check other on the devil’s demography form.
As we lay like dumbfounded concubines
fornicated by twelve years of Ray-Gunomics
that trickled down ass whippin’s which
propelled us back to Big Missy’s Kitchen.
Then we hear the alarm,
waking us to a snow white reality-
the sound of night sticks ringing out their revolution
on top of brother’s back.
Burn Dream Burn.
This is the prize for what we were fighting,
giving us the opportunity to become Cadillac driving slaves
as Sir Clarence melts, [i] mean, integrates us all.
An explosion of soiled and spoiled spirits ringing out,
a carbonated crying conscience held silent by contentment.
Bankrupt and sterile tears plunging to the ground
within the depths of our barren being.
A screaming mother’s pleas
crash against the ashy quarry of the night.
Her baby’s lying in a milky lagoon of blood,
and [i] toss and turn in my rundown crib
while the wobbly world with its skewed axis,
just keeps turning, ignoring its irregular humming.
We need spiritual q-tips to hear conscience set on silent;
it’s the unwavering voice of high-pitched sorrow
asking us to reread the fine print of Walker’s Appeal
to the King James Pamphlet on our mind’s nightstand.
The roosters of evil have a first-class ticket
back to the coop.
Can’t you hear it tapping you on your soul’s eardrum?
But the flesh is anesthetized,
paralyzing our spirits to a hollow shell.
Silent Conscience sings a serene song
under the noise of clanging cash registers
as there is yet another white sale.
The heated name of Jesus (the original bronze brother) rings like a national weather alarm and falls on frozen ears.
Yet, it’s still steamrolling the tracks of our minds,
bouncing off the brick and wrought iron walls
of our apathy, fighting for position
because evil keeps a constant hard-on.
If we don’t get a condom for our souls,
we’ll become pregnant with the bastard seeds
of Satan’s loins, and there ain’t no DHS for demons.
Silent Conscience whispers as a nation’s narcolepsy
holds it under the winter blankets of immorality
as the world just keeps spinning its mud stuck wheels.
A man with a sign, “Will work for food,”
stands beneath a sign, “50 billion served.”
This object d’art is framed in finely finished avarice.
Still we do not hear it creeping like dust mites
down our rickety spines, lurking in our minds like lice.
Our nature is past its expiration date.
The spirit can’t grow when the body lies in an impure bed.
Still it calls, moaning like a siren, howling like a wolf
with a frozen winter’s trap gnawing away its paw,
flashing his teeth across our dreams.
If we don’t hear the howling horrors of
Tuskegee, Money, Philadelphia, the Congo, or Rwanda,
how can we hear what haunts Pearl or Littleton?
Silent Conscience knocks at the door of our brain;
however, opportunity has started the car to leave.